The Devil's Drink

Delilah did not believe in demons. Doing up her hair for a night of work at the speakeasy housed beneath an old Catholic church, she found herself humming along to the radio, a fast paced song she would no doubt hear again on her shift. Patrons called it the Devil’s Dance. Thick stone walls kept the sound of the party away from the ears of daft policemen. 
It was dark as she made her way down the street. Her dark cropped hair done up in modern waves, lips stained red in the fashionable cupid’s bow shape. She wasn’t in a party dress, but the garb was not too far off. A bit less sparkly and made of cotton instead of silk. She was just a moment late, arriving between songs from the radio. 
The Devil’s Dance was dimly lit and could only be found through an undisclosed ingress under the altar. Tables lined the sides of the room and the dance floor was a smooth stone. The music echoed across the bar but did not escape into the church above. As far as speakeasies went, it was one of the more secretive Delilah knew of.
Greeted by her regular clientele, she went about her shift as usual. Wafting whiffs of alcohol scented the evening as she served up drinks. As the night drew on, the radio slowly ran out of tunes. The lot of her peers, young people adorn in pearls and sparkles and drunk as a preacher on Monday, had long since gone and few people remained in her domain. 
“Whiskey,” said a man, dressed in a neat, dark suit, hair slicked back under his black bowler, which was pulled low over his brow.
“Bit late for a first drink,” Delilah commented, giving him the desired drink. 
“Is it?” he asked. 
“I’d say so. Most folks are right jazzed by two.”
The man hummed, swirling the substance in his glass. “Funny how that is.” 
“You got a name? Haven’t seen you in here before.” 
“My friends call me Lucy,” he stated, smiling beneath the black bowler. 
“Bit of a strange name for a man.” 
“I’m a strange man.” He savored a sip from his glass. “Do you have a name?” 
“Delilah.” 
“A good name,” he said. 
“I can name about a dozen preachers who’d say otherwise.” 
“I don’t tend to abide by the word of preachers.”
“Really?” Delilah inquired, surprise lingering upon her lips. “I would’ve pegged you for a church going type. Drink hard all week and head up top to repent your sins.” 
The strange man laughed, a hard guffaw. “Now what gave you that impression?” 
Delilah dared to roll her eyes. “You got our most expensive liquor. That’s something some swell churchgoer does. Happens more often than you think.” 
“I like whiskey,” Lucy said. “Are you much of a churchgoer?” 
She gestured to the room around them. “Take a guess. There’s a church upstairs, if that counts. Preachers keep trying to save me, but I don’t think I need saving.” 
“Saved,” the man took a long swig from his glass. 
“That’s the word they use.” Delilah pulled out a glass and made herself a quick sidecar. The bar was empty now, just her and the stranger. She would start closing up soon. 
“Do you consider yourself saved?” 
“That’s a bit personal for four in the morning.” But she considered, sipping on her cocktail. “Not by their standards, I don’t think. You?” 
He hummed against his glass, still nearly full despite his near constant consumption of the liquor. “I don’t think they know what it really means. Saved doesn’t fall the way they wish; down does not go as far as they hope. It makes no difference. Hell is nearly full.” 
“Now, Mr. Lucy, I thought you weren’t a churchgoer. You believe in Hell?”
“Miss Delilah, belief has nothing to do with church.”
“Do you believe in God as well?” she asked. 
“I’d go as far as to say I know him.”
“Says you,” she laughed. “Are you sure this is your first drink?” 
He looked up from his cup, hat tilted back, eyes like pools of blood, scarlet in the shadow of the bowler he kept low. A creeping shiver ran down her spine, as if a wolf stood before her. There was danger, there was death, there was a deep pit of despair beneath the old church, within the Devil’s Dance. The radio came to life, faint as a whisper, diabolus in musica.
“I am.” His voice just as calm, just as serene as it had been all night. 
Delilah felt her toes curl upon themselves like rabbits hiding in their den. The hair on the back of her neck stood tall as goosebumps covered her arms and legs. Nothing had changed about the man, yet something was wrong. She steeled herself with a sip from her drink. “You said your name was Lucy?” 
“My friends call me Lucy,” the man agreed. 
“Is that short for something?” 
Lucy smiled, baring his teeth in a devilish grin. “It is.” He leaned forward, voice dropped low to a whisper. “Most call me Lucifer, Miss Delilah. How’s that for a name preachers despise?”
“Cursed at the pulpit,” she agreed, unknowingly mimicking the man’s muted manner. 
“More than you know, Miss Delilah.” He stood, dusting the faintest idea of dust from a fine wool suit. “I shan’t keep you any longer. I’m sure you need to close up.” 
He left a full glass of whiskey on the bar.